


Mutual Therapy

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Series: Self-Help [1]
Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/M, Fingering, Happy Ending, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, Mental Illness, Mild emotional manipulation, Rough Sex, pre-game josh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 05:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11434209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: till-death-devout asked: Have you played until dawn? Cause I think you should do some Josh x reader. I think you'd nail him.A/N: I wrote an emotional smut piece with a grieving Josh that befriends another patient of Dr. Hill's. Hope you like it! See tags for warnings. <3





	Mutual Therapy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [till-death-devout](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=till-death-devout).



“Do you think these “sessions” of your’s are helping or hindering?”

What kind of a loaded question is that? In what realm were there no implications behind either answer and where did he get off, exactly? It wasn’t like you were doing anything inherently wrong; you were an adult now… and no one could tell you what to do - especially not in this regard. 

Something must show on your face - inner turmoil, maybe - because Dr. Hill pulls his lips back over his teeth in one of those gummy smiles and takes in a wet inhale as he leans back in his leather chair.

“When I ask this question, how long did it take for you to find insult? - sometimes our subconscious manifests threats so that we can, in turn, rationalize a behavior we’ve already established preconceived notions of guilt around.”

It’s times like these that you realize you respect and admiration for Dr. Hill is rivaled only by your annoyance.

“... it didn’t take me long,” you reply, wondering where the boundaries of doctor-patient confidentiality lie. How much can Dr. Hill say or… how little, and are these ‘preconceived notions of guilt’ in response to you hindering yourself, hindering Josh… or hindering Dr. Hill in his treatment of either of you? It’s clear that you don’t know, only that your harmless relationship with Josh was probably never benign to begin with. There’s a reason they kept the sexes segregated in mental health facilities. Adding any temptation of sexual congress within healing, mental health specifically, was a distraction. Of course, when both peoples were going through the long, arduous journey of recovery, it was even more important to keep your distance.

After a few quiet moments of thought, you smirk, half-laughing while Dr. Hill threads his fingers and puckers his lips. You’re starting to think like him now. Dr. Hill’s words flowing through your head in coarse understanding.

“I think you missed my point,” he ushers in; smile curling at the ends. “Relationships are inevitable and the process of understanding yourself - of healing - can be a lonely road. You are young. The… desire for sexual contact will fuel many decisions and while that can be a hindrance, it does not need to be… vilified.”

Despite yourself, you blush which apparently means Dr. Hill is free to chuckle and lean forward with that familiar smug, and almost lecherous, grin. He’s an intense man… and you're not used to men like him… or men like Josh, and despite your ages, Josh seems more man than most of the men you’ve known in your life. Thinking about him, and the way his dorky smile unfurled over the pain of his loss last night in the park was still making your stomach flutter.

Dr. Hill was right, you think, finally - finally straightening your spine. “I’m - we… it’s not like that, not yet anyway. It might not be, either… but if it were?” 

This question. 

Somehow you’re having a harder time talking with Dr. Hill about this than you have your darkest secrets - your most shameful moments. Perhaps the reason is that, if you do anything, it’ll be you doing it. For once you’ll be the one instigating something, or at least deciding for yourself. It’ll be ‘you’ happening, not something happening ‘to’ you and that’s new ground.

Dr. Hill remains silent, waiting for you to come up with the right words - ever patient. You hate his patience sometimes. Sometimes you want him to talk over you. Sometimes you need him to fill up the vacuum with his jargon and lecturing. Sometimes you don’t want to think.

With an obnoxiously heavy breath, you open your mouth, “If… something were to happen, how would I avoid fucking things up - with Josh… or someone else… but this,” you pass your hands between Dr. Hill’s wooden desk and your stomach, “there were all these girls in St. Amelia’s that royally screwed themselves over, all for boys… or girls, even. I think I’d rather find other ways to occupy my time if it meant I’d just end up where they did.”

“Sometimes, your gut instinct is better able to decide for you in situations like these. If you feel… conflicted, or… unsure,” he pauses again and smiles - all teeth and candor - and squeezes his fingers together, “Listen to that. If… or when you and your friend toe that line, make sure to pay attention to that intuition. I cannot sit here and tell you it is a bad idea because it might not be, but… traditionally, relationships while in such a violent period of transition, especially with someone facing the same obstacles, rarely ends for the best. You want to avoid feeding into each other's negative qualities.”

The rest of your session with Dr. Hill is a rambling roller coaster of emotional highs and plummeting lows. You nod when he says something you know to be right, whether you truly understand it’s sentiment or not and there’s no hiding your boredom when he says something you don’t give a shit about because he calls you out on it. 

Before you can get to your feet - before the flawlessly upholstered leather chair can leave you backside, Dr. Hill straightens up with a skinny frown; eyes two pale slits within the finely wrinkled flesh.

“I hope this goes without saying, but allow me to remind you once more, before our time today ends, I am the last fork in the road. When a patient is fighting for a life of freedom against a life of confinement, it is I that provides the weapon. You are the one that must swing it straight.”

It's not a good idea, then, you decide, nodding your head.

You agree with Dr. Hill. He knows what’s best for you even if what’s best for you isn’t what you want at the time. You’ve seen enough bullshit through your years in and out of therapy (some forced and more recently, voluntarily) to know when to hand over the reins to someone else more qualified. You know hooking up with Josh is a bad idea…

… so why you find yourself in Centennial Park at ten in the evening, waiting in your usual spot in the hopes that he’ll show up, you just don’t know anymore. Dr. Hill would tell you it’s a symptom of false perceptions and your own skewed delusions, but that doesn’t sound right either. Then again, how would you know? It’s your mind that’s fucked, and your mind is all you have to save yourself from falling further down the rabbit hole.

Bad idea - bad fucking idea, you mouth the words against the light of the lamp post and listen through the trees at the slow traffic in the distance.

A wall of honeysuckles that bars this section of the park off from the path you like most sways in the breeze, throwing out sweet, earthy smells. A few dried maples leaves skitter across the old brickwork, reminding you that Halloween is nearly here and you won’t have anyone to celebrate it with.

Big band orchestras play through your earbuds - some of the only sounds, aside from white noise and thunderstorms, that calms you down anymore. 

Unable to keep still, you start to fidget with the loose hem of your hoodie, picking at threads and the unstuck zipper handle. You wonder if having sex again, after two years without, will feel like that first time had… would it hurt again? Do you want it to? Yes.

You want it to make you cry - you want it to hurt so much that there won’t be any energy left to think. Just feel...

Scenarios of violent fucks between you and faceless men play out like movie snippets. Josh has his part in them too, but those fantasies are less bloody. You know he’s capable of something horrific. Otherwise, Dr. Hill wouldn’t be seeing him, but picturing Josh hurting you doesn’t fit what you know about him. Despite his pain, he’s loving - you know he is.

When your legs start bouncing over the cement plot wall - full of piss and vinegar - you pull your bottle of pills out your pocket and frantically begin reading the label. Your panic-laced lust isn’t prominent enough to put one pink pill under your tongue, but sometimes just reminding yourself that they’re there - that panic is only one bitter crunch away from calm helps.

This is where Josh finds you, staring down at your orange pill bottle, twisting the white label around between your fingers while your lips move over each syllable - it’s here and there and all around that he catches the nervous impulse you’ve been good to hide until now. 

When his shadow reaches your own, you jerk; gasping at his twitching smile and rip one earbud out just in time to catch the tail end of his laugh.

“Scared ya, huh?” he goads, looking like a dead man walking despite the manic expression of amusement on his face. It seems like he hasn’t slept since you saw him yesterday morning. The long, purple bags under his eyes stand out against the rest of his handsome face. If it weren't for those eyes of his, you think you’d have ignored him for a typical pretty boy asshat… but his eyes say too much and yet keep things too well hidden for you to figure him out completely. He’s good at faking you out, or maybe you feel as naive as everyone says. 

Dr. Hill would recommend roleplaying with friends in order to help you with being so fucking gullible, but you don’t have any of those.

None except for Josh…

“Hey… come on, I didn’t think you’d clam up on me,” Josh says; words trailing off in a typical pout that makes your fingers itch. Maybe the vulnerable tone Josh uses it meant to manipulate you into weakness - to return the situation back to something he can control. It’s a terrible thought, and it’s a new one too. After your session today with Dr. Hill, everyone has been deceitful in your eyes. It doesn't mean they are… just that you think they are.

Josh is supposed to be a confidant. A friend. If anyone should be exempt from your fucked up notions, it ought to be him. You’d been sitting here, wondering if his dick was big enough to hurt you a few minutes ago, though, so you already failed in that regard.

“I umm… “ you fumble, watching his smile drop and those eyes open with concern, “I’m sorry. It’s been a weird day.”

Josh’s lips press together, looking thoughtful before he spares the lonely park a scrutinizing look. He licks his lower lip, shoves his thumbs in his pockets and, with loose shoulders, asks you, “Is it cool if I sit down? We could talk about it, ya know. Shoot the shit or just whatever.”

“... yeah,” you sigh, pulling out your other ear bud with a hopeful side-smile, “my psychiatrist laid some heavy shit on me today.”

With a chipped laugh, Josh pulls himself up on the cement plot, turned park bench, and plays a tune on his knees, “Funny you should say that because just this afternoon “my” psychiatrist told me to keep my dick in my pants. I wonder. Could the two be related?”

Blushing, somehow keeping your throat from swelling with nerves, you laugh under your breath. “He actually said that?”

“Well… I mean, in so many words. Message was pretty clear. Guess he doesn’t think us hanging out is such a smart idea. I guess he’s afraid of my animal magnetism or ya know, your lack of restraint.”

There’s something sad about Josh’s happiness. Which at first didn’t sound right - seemed like an oxymoron, but the more you talk with him, and the more he jokes and smiles, the more you notice the despair beneath the surface. It feels like one stray moment could shatter him. It scares you, in the same vein that it thrills you, to think what kind of person he is behind the mask. The idea of seeing a glimpse is in part what attracts you to him. Knowing your reasoning should make you feel bad, but you’ve noticed the way Josh looks at you… and know he has his own selfish reasons for hanging out with you too. That’s not to say you both don’t enjoy each other’s company, or humor or similar disparities. But you both have other, more secret wishes as well.

You tell yourself that you won’t push anything sexual, nor will you accept any from him, but those are things agreed on while you’re in a comfortable state of mind. When that depthless panic settles in, leaving you feeling numb and so, so very alone, who knows what you’ll do if given a chance. 

“You wanna talk about today?” He asks. 

Scrunching up your nose, you scoff, “And relive the bullshit? Nope, I'm good.”

“You are good,” he grins, showing off those expensive straight pearly whites with all the charms, missing his mark because, despite it all, you know it hurts him to pretend because it hurts you too. 

Sometimes you lay awake at night and wonder what the ‘not knowing’ must feel like. Are they dead… are they suffering or did they run off and never look back? The lack of closure must be worse than knowing the truth - no matter how horrific because it’s the mind that decides to conjure up the worst. Does Josh lay awake at night as well? Does he spend hours wondering what happened to his sisters… does he think about you sometimes? The same way you think about him?

Smiling flat, you give your orange pill bottle a fleeting glance, pocket it with a rattle and meet Josh’s fragile stare, “Hey, I didn't eat dinner… so,” you trail off, forcing a whimsical smirk.

“So?” Josh mimic’s looking haunting despite the grin.

“Wanna buy me a donut?”

“Ha!” Josh barks, slaps your shoulder and slides off the concrete planter with a boyish hop and grin, “How about a steak? - some cheesecake for dessert… maybe a few drinks to take the edge off. Unless you’ve already slung a few of those tonight.” He side eyes your pocket, bulging with the telltale outline of the pill bottle. 

“Yeah, uh - no,” you drag out, rubbing the thin skin of your wrist in a nervous tick, “I’m not working right now, you know that… can’t exactly spring for a steak dinner.”

For a second Josh makes a face like a broken mannequin, but he fixes it before you can decide if it’s the real him peeking through or something else. That charming smile brightens back up, at odds with the substantial exhaustion under his eyes. He dares touch the ball of your knee; friendly enough and tells you plainly, “If anyone deserves a nice dinner with a guy ‘not’ trying to get inside her pants, it’s you - and I promise,” his smile is as genuine as you’ve seen it, “I’ll be the perfect gentleman.”

How could you say no? 

Inside your mind, Dr. Hill is screwing his lip together, questioning intentions and finding cracks in the mask, but you can feel your stomach flip and tighten - both forms of hunger strangling your gut. It’s when Josh drops the facade and treats you like a friend, that you remember why you mentioned him to Dr. Hill in the first place. If Josh were a sexual distraction and nothing more, there wouldn’t have been much confliction in your mind, nor your body… but Josh understands your mind. He gets the struggle - he knows the pain, and the isolation and how hopeless things can seem and Josh knows what to do to make you smile because it’s the same thing he wants from someone; anyone. 

You can’t treat him to fancy dinners, or get him into nice restaurants despite the dress code, nor can you tip the hostess any extra fifty to get a table on the balcony, away from prying eye… but you can listen to him, provide crappy jokes and smile when he throws in his own humor. 

When the cheesecake comes with the check, brought by a ten out of ten in a black cocktail dress, you turn your gaze to the sweeping intersection, busy but beautiful with the trees and after hour signs and colorful people stepping to and fro in the night. 

If Josh checks out the waitress, he does it when you're not looking, but for some reason, you don’t think he does.

“You know,” he eases out, tone mischievous, “if you don’t have anyone waiting up for you, we could get some beers at my place.”

Flashes of sweaty fucking in his car, on the park benches… some in different beds come and fade away as Josh watches the wind throw your hair around the flaps of your hood. Your thoughts must show on your face because a darkened blush highlights the contours of Josh’s cheeks, almost as dark as the shadows under his eyes. With a slight stutter, he backtracks, “I didn’t mean it like that… it’s just my parents are gone on one of their sabbaticals and - Woah, that also sounds wicked.”

“I appreciate the offer, Josh,” you start off, making sure to smile before turning him down, “but my Aunt will throw a fit if I show up reeking of booze and… it doesn’t sound smart on our part.”

“Fair enough, no alcohol. I’ll bust out the fruit punch, and we can watch Die Hard on the big screen. I’ve got an actual theater in the basement, my Dad’s even got a popcorn machine with like ten different kinds of butter.”

No, your mind says. Dr. Hill shakes his head, but you look at Josh over the swaying candle in the middle of the small bistro style table, swallow a mouthful of nervous spit and watch the mask slip away, leaving him an empty husk. What if this is a cry for help? You know he’s tried to kill himself before… he admitted he’s tried it twice when people stopped looking for his twin sisters. If you blew him off and had to hear from Dr. Hill about how Josh finally did himself in… you’d never forgive yourself.

Under his breath - desperate - Josh begs, “Please… I promise, no bullshit. I just don’t want to be alone right now.”

You understand the feeling, even if your Aunt is never not at home, hovering and noisy. Even with a constant parental figure in your life, one that makes you feel loved and appreciated every minute of every day, you relate to Josh’s loneliness… though you’re sure, your understanding of the concept pales in comparison. What type of parents leaves their grieving son, going through so much inner turmoil, alone for weeks at a time? Not even considering the trouble a guy like Josh can get into with the money he has, it just seems wrong to leave a person whose as depressed as he is, alone… 

Following your gut, you take Josh up on his offer, leaving a nearly untouched cheesecake to sweat on the table. As you text your Aunt not to wait up for you, Josh flashes you a vulnerable grin and signs the dinner receipt.

Josh’s car is symbolic of a spoiled twenty-year-old, but it doesn’t smell like sharp cologne and lubricants - it reeks of hair gel and fast food and whatever fabric softener Josh’s mom uses in his clothes… or the maid uses for that matter. It clean, but well-worn, as if he’s had it since he got his driver’s license.

The music that leaks from his speaker system isn’t dumb rap music or the lame pop rock that airs on the radio - it’s something bass heavy and slightly electric. The space ballad plays into your throat as he turns up the volume, smiles shy-like and drives you over the Bow River Bridge, winding through dark two lane roads. The music pulsates somewhere south of your hoodie, maybe between your thighs a little, as the modest homes within the forested suburbs become large two story cabin-style fortresses stamped into the uneven terrain.

Josh is wealthy, or at least his family is. 

They own the old lodge up on the middle peak of the Blackwood Mountains, and if the rumors are right, his family owned the Sanitorium back in the day. You think you know what to expect when the car starts to slow, but the three leveled redwood and cobblestone cabin is still impressive; breathtaking even. The dark, bay windows stare down like eyes on a face, smiling in a parallel lattice of green trim and skinny windows. 

It’s a living house if you’ve ever seen one. Looks like there’s a few ghosts fogging the seams of carved wood and granite, maybe some skeletons in the closet.

Josh looks a bit bashful as he parks the car, but maybe that's the lighting. It’s hard to be poor in this town, but you’ve never been to this side of the river, nor would you have imagined knowing one of the people that lived in a house like this. The view down into the valley must be incredible. 

The whole situation is overwhelming, so much so that as Josh busies himself with the front door lock, you fumble with the pill bottle in your pocket, carefully fingering a fat pill from the plastic to shove under your tongue. It’s just in case the adrenaline you're feeling tries to tear its way into your bloodstream - in case it starts infecting the evening. You don’t want to be at war with your mind while trying to keep Josh from succumbing to his. 

Once more, your stomach pulls in apprehension. Dr. Hill, somewhere, is thinning his lips. Despite your wavering intuition, you follow Josh into the darkness.

“Sorry. Turned everything off this morning,” Josh says in the black before a flick of his wrist ignites the rich, redwood that seems to extend from the outside of the house to the inside. Copper hues refract off custom driftwood light fixtures and accent brickwork. Burgundy carpets and oaks shelves extend welcome into the rest of the home.

Josh continues quietly, “I wasn’t sure I was gonna come back tonight… or tomorrow.” He chuckles - all self-deprecation and sadness. “Fucking pathetic, huh?”

“Don’t say that,” you tell him, harder than you meant to but Josh just swallows audibly and smiles in a bare mess as you clear your throat, “I mean… granted, the idea of having time to myself is nice. Aunt Deb orders her damn groceries online now, but if I were left alone as much as you, I’d feel different about it.”

He shrugs underneath the windbreaker and blue flannel collar, “Even when they’re here it feels… empty, you know? I love my parents, but sometimes it’s like they’ve forgotten about me.”

“The loss-“ you catch yourself, seeing the shadows that begin to play on Josh’s face - the wrinkles of pain, “... grief affects people differently. But, I know the feeling. Like, how can someone be in a room full of people and feel isolated? Doesn’t make much sense, and - I guess what I’m getting at, is… I can hang out all night if you want. I-I don’t mind...”

Josh hesitates in the entryway; eyes looking more sunken underneath the lights from above than he did against the candlelight at dinner. At his side, his fingers twitch, and he stares; unrelenting and intense. For a second you think he’s about to complicate things and kiss you, but his lips press together in second thought. 

Josh nods his head, letting out a colorful breath and relieved chuckle.

Thank fuck, you think… not wanting to push him away, or worse… pull him in, only to ruin your only relatable source outside Dr. Hills expensive office. Both of you need a friend right now, not a fuck buddy. You tell yourself this as Josh leads you through the house, flipping lights on one by one. The walls are covered in framed movie posters, sporting B-movie illustrations and noir-type photos. If given a couple hours, you don’t think you’d even touch the surface of film history in this place.

When Josh mentioned a home theater, you nearly rolled your eyes… but it makes sense now. His father was a film director, something you’d forgotten, but the evidence is all around.

“Must have been kind of cool growing up with good films,” you mention offhand behind him as he traverses the maze of a house.

“Well, ‘good’ isn’t what I’d call ‘em, but watching bad movies makes you wanna make good ones.”

He pauses at a framed poster that's about as tall as you and twice as wide. 

“Like here - check this one out,” he points at the name inlaid in gold on the bottom frame. 

“My dad knew the guy that directed this blow-fest. He goes his whole life wanting to make this movie, spends like fifty-grand of his own money just to get this Monica chick to play the lead actress, assembling a top-notch supporting cast and a lead male only to get a fat head and decide ‘Hey! I’m gonna direct and act, that way I get to stick it to Big Blue-Eyes in the final scene” and ends up ruining the whole film because of his shitty acting and, “Josh grins, “poor Monica… you can tell through the whole movie how uncomfortable the director makes her. It’s really gross… super fucked the pooch on this piece of crapola. Only good part of the film is the serial killer stabs him through the throat before he can hit the ‘climax.’”

“Does he die making the ‘oh’ face?”

Josh shoves his hands in his pockets, narrowing his eyes with a broad smile, “Oooh, yeah. Real sticky stuff.”

“I can dig it. I mean, sucks for Monica… but no one's got a good 'oh' face.”

"I bet you do," he says and then immediately freezes, looking upset with himself before kicking the hardwood floors with the heel of his boot, "Heh, sorry... that sorta just slipped out."

"... it's alright," you tell him, but it's not - not really. Dr. Hill is whispering his warning in your ears as your gut tries to tug you back towards the entryway, but Josh’s cheeks run redder now, and he looks perfectly embarrassed by himself that you can’t stop the reassuring smile as you pat his arm. 

You catch his wide, white eyes and try your best not to blush yourself, “Josh, it’s okay. I get it, it’s cool. Keep it up though, and I’ll be forced to wreck you.” It's supposed to be funny, but it comes out suggestive as fuck. 

Thankfully, Josh laughs and motions to a dark hallway. 

Against your better judgment, you follow.

The home theater looks black even though the sconces glare brightly down the dipping room; charcoal seats, black carpet and matte-red wallpaper. It seems like a great place to show spooky movies during Halloween. Fitting, given the month. On the back wall, there are shows on old film co-mingling with DVD stacks in elegant columns. Labeled genres lay above each stack along with more framed photos ranging from black and white headshots to signed posters and pictures.

This room is the opposite of humble.

“So, I’ve literally got every movie you could want. If it’s not in the tower, then I can stream it to the projector if you want… but I’ve got the best ones on DVD.”

You press past him, notice the way he inhales, drawing closer, but ignore it in favor for the hundreds of movies on display. Most of the films are from the seventies and eighties, mixed in with old classics like ‘Dial ‘M’ for Murder’ and ‘Seven Samurai.’ Hoping the choice you're about to make won’t be Josh’s basis of your person for the rest of your relationship, you finger out one of your favorite feel-good movies ‘Clue.’

Josh whistles, taking the case from the slot before you can hand it to him. 

“Not bad,” he says, showing his teeth, “I used to have kind of a crush on Madeline Kahn as Mrs. White. Wouldn’t mind being one of her victims if ya know what I mean.”

“Really?” You laugh, making a face, “I would have thought you’d go for Miss Scarlet: brothel owner, lady of the night and… pretty hot.”

“Yeah, but Mrs. White wears her freak on the inside.”

You shrug, smiling despite the butterflies in your stomach, “Fair enough.” You can feel your meds kicking in already - like a river running warm through you yet again.

“Lemme put this bad boy in. There’s a bar behind the curtain over there,” he points to a rich, crimson drape and winks, “help yourself.”

The mini bar is stocked with local beers, soda, and iced vodka. A part of you wants to crack open a cold one, but even without having taken your medication, having one wouldn’t be all that smart, so it’s a can of root beer you grab instead.

The credits roll right as you take a seat in the middle second row, resting your soda in the cup holder to the side. You took it to be polite, but in all honesty, you're not in the mood for sugar… just some company and a relaxing movie and maybe… no, you stop the thought before it can manifest into a desire. Josh is your friend. Nothing more. If you want to fuck, you’ll just have to use restraint. People keep the hunger in their pants all the time. It’s not so hard.

“Heads up!” Josh shouts, hoping the seat beside you like a regular goofball, sitting down hard on the springy seat cushion; white grin beaming. Between your lungs, your heart races. Even if the bags are still nestled snug under his eyes, and his face is edged with depression, the smile he gives you is believable. Who would have thought a man who tried to commit suicide twice could laugh like this? But it’s not so farfetched considering no one thought you’d go do something similar.

Looks can be deceiving, you know that now.

“You ever break one of these things trying to be a show-off?” You ask, daring to kick your feet up on the headrest in front of you.

“Oh, yeah. Loads of times… wouldn’t normally do it, but I knew you’d fall for me if I landed it just right,” there’s so much forced charm in his words, that you play along regardless of your belly flipping under his flirtations. 

“Got me there. I’m smitten now.”

Josh settles in, tips his head back and throws you an empty smile, “You’re in good hands, I’ll keep them to myself. Promise.”

“I’ll do my best not to tempt you then,” you reply, knowing with certainty that you just told a lie, both to Josh and yourself. One time in middle school you fooled around with your long time crush in a movie theater - common for kids at that age… but sitting with Josh reminds you of that and without warning, a flash of the two of you fucking heatedly in these seats assaults you. 

With a click of a remote, Josh turns down the lights, letting the rainy opening throw contours into his face as your mind conjures up what his ‘oh’ face might look like. Would a release, something given by a person close and warm, take away a bit of the weight crushing down on him? Would it lessen your own emotional burden? Despite the drugs, your anxiety latches on to the unknown, mingling with arousal until you can’t be sure which is which.

The film moves forward, sliding from scene to scene. Sometimes you laugh and sometimes Josh laughs with you, but often you’ll see him shift, looking to you for his cue when it’s time to chuckle. It’s heartbreaking and only makes your fingers itch to touch him… just hold his hand - anything.

Half way into the movie, just after the dinner party barricades the cop in the lounge, you lay your hand over Josh’s knuckles, feeling the tendons twitch and a light pulse of blood through one bulging vein. 

He doesn’t turn to look at you, but out the side of your eye, you see the edge of his mouth twitch. Just when you think he’s going to ignore the touch, his hand tilts under your palm, slow and hesitant before holding your hand in his. Something so simple shouldn’t feel so intimate, but it does - it feels more loving, more pure, more comforting than most of the physical contact you’ve had in the past. Even the failed hugs your mom used to give you didn’t feel as warm as Josh’s grip does.

Maybe it’s because you feel like Josh understands, or that you understand him… or that deep down, you’re lonely, and you still can’t make a smart decision for yourself, but you lean over to kiss him, only to find that Josh meets you halfway. It’s an awkward clash of lip-covered teeth and sore noses, but neither of you spares a breath to laugh it off or apologize. That instant bit of moist contact is like scissors on a rope bearing. There’s not going back.

In a last act of sense, that gut feeling goes dark - as cavernous as Dr. Hill’s trademark frown - but Josh doesn’t push for anything deeper, which only makes you want deep. When faced with the crossed line, you would have pegged him for a guy that’d take the mile presented to him. He doesn’t, and you are at once elated and disappointed by that.

The soft press of his mouth doesn’t demand more, just lingers… warm and robust and sweet.

You’ll stop at the one kiss. No. The second, maybe. 

No...

Another soft slant of lips and a tease of a sugar-laced tongue and you find yourself pulling at his flannel sleeves, urging him over the armrest - urging him over you with a breathless moan.

“We shouldn’t-” Josh starts, grunting to a halt as you nip his lower lip, sucking a kiss that makes his tongue dart underneath your own.

One of his hand slides urgently around your back, between the thick hoodie and your long sleeve thermal until the warmth of his palm presses into your spine. He groans, tips his lips down over your chin and starts running sloppy kisses down the front of your throat as he braces against the armrest behind you. Each kiss is punctuated by a soft hiss of breath as if each one hurts him.

“... I’m sorry,” you whisper, curling your fingers through the open collar on his flannel, seeking out warm skin to scratch. Josh doesn’t bother replying, too busy finding solace along your neck - too busy leaving his mark.

Little shocks of pleasure tickle your stomach with each wet press of his lips and with each new kiss, Josh becomes bolder; frantic for more contact. The word ‘passionate’ crosses your mind, as well as ‘desperate.’ A part of you wonders when the last time someone just hugged him… or when his mom last kissed him good night… or when a girl last spread their legs for him. 

As Josh pauses to wheeze against the bend of your neck - fingers hard in the keys of your spine - you realize there’s so much you don’t know about him. Your shared sadness seemed like the only thing that mattered at the time, and now your joint quest for solace is all that matters.

With his nose pressed into the loose hair behind your ear, Josh sniffles - it’s the only expression of the inner pain he lets show before opening his lips on your skin again, leaving brands behind each hot, wet kiss. After a soft bite, he lifts up, covering your mouth with a rough kiss. The sounds of lips smacking - of your mingled pants and careful moans - breaks out over the movie’s intense score.

When Josh drags you close, your breasts on his chest, there’s no doubt what's about to happen.

As your hand's fumble for the buttons on his flannel and Josh’s hands try fighting for purchase on your hoodie, you think about the lie you’ll tell Dr. Hill about tonight… or maybe you’ll admit what you did and accept his criticisms. It was foolish to believe that you could just watch a movie with Josh, especially feeling the way you do about him. These past few months, it’s like you’ve been touch starved, but the innocent need isn’t so innocent after all. It never really had been. You’re home like wasn’t abusive, but you grew up seeing sex as a filler for companionship. Doing this… is wrong. You should be holding Josh, listening to him - not helping him get your belt undone.

Josh groans, louder than you do when he finally gets his hand between your jeans and underwear, applying a hot strip of pressure to the damp fabric. 

You’re still groping with his shirt between the seats while Josh sinks his teeth into your lower lip, slips his tongue into your mouth and edges two fingers around the seam of your underwear, laying his fingers under your clit. He’s frantic once he feels the bead of nerves; rolling the nub in tight little circles as you pant and groan into his mouth, wondering how the fuck this ended up happening so fast. 

All you can manage, as Josh fingers your clit, is to keep hold of his collar while gratified waves of pleasure offset the desperate need for release. Josh tugs his lips away, ghosting hot breath on the side of you face as he grunts and rubs bliss into your cunt. Glassy, wide eyes peer down between your thighs and cut back up to your pinched face that no doubt looks silly… but there’s no helping that. It feels too good to school yourself into something more flattering.

“...m’ sorry too,” he admits, hoarse and so upset it shouldn’t make your stomach spike - shouldn’t make you cum… but hearing him sound so broken makes the pleasure so much more powerful, and like a sadist, you spread your thighs wide, listen to inner pain panting against your face and shudder against his fingers.

Josh growls and dips his face against your heated neck as your orgasm floods up and down your stomach.

“I fucking promised!” he seethes, sounds like he’s screaming at himself, upset he’d caved in and touched you, but his fingers keep running circles around your nerves, only pausing when you buckle and tug at his collar, wordless in your pleasure. 

It’s too much now...

He stops long enough for you to shove your fingers down between his thighs, work the zipper free on his jeans and pull back the elastic band of his boxers. His hard cock swings free, punctuated by another hurried apology from Josh, who sounds on the edge of tears. Stale pleasure pounds against his limp fingers as you wrap a fist around his cock and kiss him even as he sobs. 

Give me your pain, you think wildly, nibbling on his lower lip as his hand pushes further into your jeans, shoving a finger inside your cunt; so deep and brutal that you stop worrying about the wetness spilling on your cheeks… if Josh wants to cry, then he can cry. And he does, as he finger fucks you and jerks his hips up, thrusting his pulsating cock inside your tight fist.

When he’s had enough, shivering hard with each stroke, Josh shoves you back in your seat, tugging his fingers from your folds so he can yanks your jeans down your hips, leaving them bundled around your knees.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, “so, so, sorry.”

Josh crawls over the armrest, still muttering haunting apologies and lifts your calves under one arm. He doesn’t ask if it’s alright for him to yank your knees up and push them to the side, bending you in half - doesn’t ask before spreading you open with slick thumbs… nor does he ask if he can spear you with his cock, but he does anyways. 

He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t need to. 

There’s a mutual understanding that passes silently between you both as you wince and Josh sniffs up tears and snot as his dick slides tightly between your folds, breaching that swollen ring of flesh over and over again. He grinds his teeth against your lips and forces his thrusts deeper than your ready for, but the pain feels cleansing and the taste of skinny tear tracks over his lips is just as good.

It’s so fucked. 

It’s too intimate and weird, and you’ll regret the hell out of this once you’re both done, but right now it’s perfect. The way Josh sobs and grunts, working himself in an uncoordinated rhythm, going deep and then shallow… hard and then slow - loving and then hollow. Josh fucks as brokenly as you’re sure he feels, but there's solace in the contact even if it’s all backward.

“... harder,” you plead, wanting it to hurt just that little bit more before he can’t hold himself back any longer.

It’s been a year since you last cut yourself… but the sting of Josh’s dick makes you a ravenous mess for some pain - some brutal stimulus. You hadn’t thought sex would be a trigger for this particular need of yours, but you know now, so you dig your nails between the sweaty strands of his hair and beg him again. Harder… faster. Make it hurt, you plead.

You lock eyes for what feels like the first time since that kiss. 

Josh’s eyes widen, mirroring your own emptiness. He understands - of course, he does. So he bares his perfect white teeth, shoves your knees down into your shoulder hard enough to bruise and slaps his hips against your backside; making the pleasure pulse and pop right alongside the pain. He fucks you like he’s stabbing someone to death; fucks you like this until you cum, crying and thankful in the slack of your sleeves, trying to hide the way your lips part and your nose wrinkles in bliss.

His fingers pry at your wrist, yanking one away only for the other to reach out for his shoulder, needing something to hold onto as Josh continues to pound into you. Endless and bottomless.

“Josh,” you gasp; unable to help it.

A flash of panic twists his features - pupils blown wide. In an instant, he pulls out, fumbling between his legs. Josh’s shoulders bow up, neck tensing and jaw straining shut as he shivers, shoulder hitching while he jerks himself off. You catch his face between your hands and breathe slowly through your nose as his skin grows tacky, and another tear slips down the side of his face, edging the crease where your skin meet his. 

Hoping to soothe, you whisper his name again as you stroke your thumbs over his parted wet lips and watch the glaze pass over his eyes as he cums right up against the soft flesh on the back of your thigh. It’s warm - the spurts of cum hit your skin and slide down the slope of your ass. 

Intimate, you think. The ‘oh’ face Josh makes is beautiful… and it’s clear that you’d been selfish by trying to hide your own earlier. Even with the gummy tears in his lashes, you like the face he makes.

Josh chokes, grinning between your thumbs and free running tears as a last warm gush lands dangerously close to your sore fleshy folds. It might be too soon to know for sure, but so far the regret hasn’t hit you yet. Josh rests his forehead on the side of your knees, nose in the crease of your jeans and lets out a long, exhausted sigh.

“I think…” you begin, pausing long enough to get his attention, “this was my fault, Josh.”

The ending credits run down behind his head as he shakes it against your knee, laughing under his breath, “No, no… it’s mine. I like you - really, I do… but I think a part of me wanted to take you out, get you back here and fuck you because - because I shouldn’t have. It was wrong of me. Dr. Hill said so. He was right, but I did this despite him, and you deserve so much better than that.”

It’s shitty… but he’s not the only one to blame. 

You let him help you wipe off the cum - help you get your jeans back up around your hips and just like that you’re both back in your seats like nothing ever happened. If not for the sweat glistening on his brow and the ache between your legs, it could have been a hallucination but it wasn’t, and you can’t just sit idly by and let Josh beat himself up over this. He blames himself for enough as it is.

“Josh,” you say his name, and when he doesn’t look over you twist in your seat and call him out again until finally, his pupils slide over out the corner of his eye. 

“We might have done this for the wrong reasons… but that doesn’t mean what happened was wrong. I don’t regret it, and no rule says this is going to end badly. It doesn’t have to, not if we understand each other.”

He doesn’t look very convinced, but he’s not being candid either. Josh doesn’t have to be… because you’re not going to be wholly honest about your intentions tonight, so why should he?

Maybe in the morning things will be different, or maybe they’ll be worse somehow. You’re not sure, but neither is Josh nor is Dr. Hill. They could be the things they need in each other to get better, or they could be the worst thing to happen to one another. Whatever Josh thinks, you’re not sure, but he shuts down the theater with a smile that’s nearly a frown and leads you through the house, up a spiral staircase, and down a dark hallway.

His room emanates with him, and you know what he smells like now, beyond the fabric softener and hair gel, and it’s nice despite the muskiness. 

“It’s uh… this is all pretty backward, huh? Usually, I’d be sneaking girls into my room before getting in their pants,” he admits, shrugging out of the blue flannel with awkward difficulty. 

“Gotten into a lot of pants then?” It’s a bit of a joke, but you make it a point to watch him as you slip out of your hoodie.

“Not really,” he mumbles, undoing his pants, shedding off the layers you hadn’t bothered to get him out of, “... not as many as some guys, but I knew enough not to just start fingering the crap out of you.”

“I’ll make sure to thank whoever it was that taught you that then,” this time you laugh, a bit jealous sure, but not much. Not enough to let it get to you.

When Josh hops in bed and shoves the covers down, he’s in his boxers and the tiny scratch marks you left around his neck. When you crawl in next to him, you're in your underwear and a few hickeys. Josh clicks his tongue and wags his brows at your bare breasts, but when he lays a hand around one soft weight, it’s so he can drag you in against his chest, slotting your backside into the dip of his hips and wrap the blanket around you both.

The night could have gone worse, you think, rubbing your face into Josh’s pillow, inhaling the dense smell of him and savoring the warmth.

“Thanks by the way,” Josh says low into the crown of your head, sounding ragged and worn down.

“For the sex? Yeah, you’re welcome,” you smile despite the weirdness.

“No, well… sure. I mean, I really, really appreciate that, but you just being here. Thanks.”

“... yeah, thanks for this too,” you sigh, finally closing your eyes, “I forgot how good being held could feel.”

“Me too,” he breathes, tugging you in, palm on your stomach and hand around your breast. With gentle fingers, you touch the expanse of his wrist and allow yourself some rest, hoping - if anything - that Josh gets some sleep too. You like his eyes… but they’d look better with a little relaxation and a fuck ton of rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone that read! 
> 
> If you have time, please drop me a comment and let me know what you thought.  
> All mistakes are mine. Big thanks to Darth Fucamus for her input and to Till-Death-Devout for their ask. Had a fun time writing something from a new fandom. <3
> 
> Tumblr ----> http://brimbrimbrimbrim.tumblr.com/


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